


Cold

by Nightmare_Prince



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas, F/M, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-09 02:46:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5522546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightmare_Prince/pseuds/Nightmare_Prince
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Merry Christmas, VoicesOffCamera. This little One-Shot is written for you, for the Secret Santa Event at the Diagon Alley II forum..</p></blockquote>





	Cold

** Cold **

The snow is cold.

She wanders down the garden path, snowflakes in her hair, her cheeks reddening under the stinging wind. Hands stuffed into pockets, wand tucked up her sleeve, she plods on, taking care not to slip as she moves across the unsteady ground.

If she looks back, she'll see her parents' house in the distance. Smoke rises from the chimney, and there's a small nativity scene arranged across the front yard, complete with the timeworn snowman that's been a part of her family since before her birth. In her mind's eye, she can still remember the winter morning during which she and her sister would assemble the entire scene with their father, whilst their mother prepared hot cocoa and steaming gingerbread men for them to tuck into once they're done.

It brings a pang to her heart to see how vast the chasm between them has become.

She's still within sight of the house, and if she chooses to, she can still look back . . . she can still see it, if she so wishes.

She doesn't turn back, hurrying on and only pausing when she reaches a park. The chains and bars are covered in frost, and the wooden swings are slick with ice. Memories assault her, slamming into her like a punch to the gut, and abruptly she turns away.

Her house no longer feels like a home, and perhaps that's because she's made a new home for herself.

Closing her eyes, Lily let's the darkness take her, and with a soft pop, she's gone.

.o0o.

The snow is cold.

He sits upon the stone bench beneath the bare-branched oak, gloved fingers folded across his lap. The flakes are falling faster now, and he notes that the drifts are higher than his ankles. Somehow or another, it doesn't matter to him, and he flicks his wand to clear the small piles of white which settle on his shoulders and hat.

The house across the street is a grim one, with not so much as a single decoration upon its doors or windows. Inside, though, he knows that the inhabitants have decorated for Yule and raised a tree, and the lady of the house has no doubt been cracking the metaphorical whip at her House-Elves since the crack of dawn to prepare dinner. They will be coming soon, the swan-lord, the dark star, the flower, and their spouses, and he hopes to be gone before they arrive.

He wonders what brings him here every year, he wonders why he, somehow, always returns to his former prison on Christmas Day.

There's movement at one of the upper floor windows, and a shock of dark hair appears against the glass. His brother is leaner and more aristocratic that before, yet his expression brightens at once. Shaking his head, he rises from his perch on the bench, and presses a finger to his lips. The boy nods in the window, still smiling, and mouths his name in barely concealed delight.

Brothers, the man on the bench thinks, will tear gaping wounds within each other's hearts, and still be there for each other no matter what.

Extricating a slender, silver-wrapped box from his coat, and with a flick of his wand, delivers it to his brother's windowsill.  

Taking to his feet and dusting himself, he looks at the house that never was his home, and closes his eyes.

Sirius lets the darkness wash around him, and with a loud crack, he's gone.

.o0o.

The snow is cold.

The frigid fingers of winter grasp at her, trying their best to pierce her clothing and seep through her skin, and she lets out a sigh. Breath fogging before her, she takes a deep breath and enters the woods.

Icicles cling to the evergreen, snow-covered branches, and hoarfrost clings to what remains of the shrubbery. Her Manor rises behind her, elegant and imposing, and yet she cannot bring herself to go back whilst her father fusses about finding her an appropriate match. He, like so many others, doesn't trust her current suitor, and she wishes they would all mind their own business.

A woman nobly born to one of the oldest Pureblood families of the country, she's been raised as her father's ambassador, to be sent off to marry a man of equal or greater birth. The gentleness of her bloodline and gender stop at birth, though, for as far as she's concerned, she's as good as any man. If her father cannot trust her judgement and let her be with the man she loves, then she will not let him marry her off to a family that will prove most advantageous to him.

 Reaching into her pocket to draw out a cigarette, she brings the Malboro to her lips and lights it with her wand, taking a deep drag before continuing down the forest path. In her childhood, she remembers darting through these trees with her brothers, and she remembers her mother's laughter, and her father's smile. Children at innocent to their parent's games, but now as she grows to be a woman, she would rather be a player than a pawn.

It's all gone now, and she realises that the house behind her can never have been her home. Not when her home is wherever _he_ is . . . and even if he is disgraced, disowned, and disinherited, he's hers.

Marlene lets the darkness crest around her, and with a subtle snap, she's gone.

.o0o.

The snow is cold.

He huddles in the drifts, naked save for what remains of his tattered jeans. Around him, the white is splattered with red, and he doesn't know whether the blood is his or his prey's. A fresh pair is left nearby, and somehow, despite the numerous fresh cuts, bruises, and slashes across his body, it's the sight of those clothes that sting the most.

His parents have seen him like this, broken and bleeding, and rather than heal him, or take him inside, all they do is leave him a fresh set of clothes.

It's enough to make him want to scream.

The transformation isn't an easy one, it hasn't been easy for a while now. Usually, his friends are able to calm the beast within in their animal forms, yet for some reason, the growing stress of the coming war has been making for a more violent, more animalistic wolf. It isn't going to be long, he reckons, before he ends up bleeding to death from his self-inflicted wounds.

Gingerly, he struggles to his feet, hissing with pain as a wounds break open, leaking fresh blood down his pale skin. Each step torture, he manages to reach the pile of clothes, and sees his wand placed alongside a bottle of Dittany. Gritting his teeth, he reaches for the bottle, and has to bite his tongue to keep from screaming as he begins the gruesome task.

When finally he is done, he looks behind him, and sees smoke rising from the cottage not far off. It's a house, four walls and a roof, and he knows that it's gradually ceased to be his home . . . from the moment that monster broke his bedroom window and prowled towards his bed as he hid, trembling, beneath the sheets.

Remus allows himself to hate, for just a moment, before letting the darkness burst fought from within him, and with a harsh crack, he's gone.

.o0o.

The snow is cold.

He walks through empty halls, and ignores the way every scrap of wallpaper mocks him with the memories of those he's lost. It hurts, it does, and he hopes that one day the pain will not be so sharp. He hopes that he will heal, in time, provided he survives the war.

It's been six months since the pox claimed his parents, and with him having spent the months since their passing at school, the grounds are in a state of growing disarray. Personally, he's not seen any reason to tend them either, and the as his family are not in the habit of keeping house elves, there is little else to do. The wounds are to raw, to bloody, for him to even think about the state of his estate.

He thinks that his mother will die all over again if she sees what's become of her precious roses.

Perhaps it's time to sell and make a fresh start.

This house is no longer a home, he reckons, but he's sure that, given time, he can find himself a home once more.

.o0o.

The hearth is warm.

They sit around a table, laughter heavy in the air as they celebrate. The place is small, just a humble room above the Three Broomsticks, and yet there's a sense of comfort about it that none of them can deny. A half-empty bottle of Firewhisky lies beside several other, empty bottles of various liquors, and the dishes have all been licked clean of Christmas dinner.

It is then, they realise, the five of them, in this broken place, that it is only when they're together that they're home.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas, VoicesOffCamera. This little One-Shot is written for you, for the Secret Santa Event at the Diagon Alley II forum..


End file.
